


Inchoate

by expected_aberrance



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, I'm going to hell and invite anyone who wants to join me, Light Dom/sub, Manipulation, Porn With Plot, Power Dynamics, Pseudo-Incest, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 20:54:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9786683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/expected_aberrance/pseuds/expected_aberrance
Summary: Modern AU anti-Valentine’s Day PWP. Someday I’ll write something in canon, I swear. I’ve taken liberties with some of the architecture as well, for which I hope I can be forgiven. Enjoy!The most noticeable absence of the evening was young Lord Arryn; her loving father would keep his stepson incapacitated but blissfully ignorant until such a time as he deemed it unnecessary. Alayne would have more sympathy for the boy if he weren’t an unholy terror when not snowed under by medications. She wished herself likewise excused, finding the entire endeavor dull in the extreme, but sadly it was not to be. The part she played did little to stretch her abilities, and most of the people present were insufferable. Still, she greeted each as they came, her words soft but kind, smiling shyly, her shoulders bowed inward to make herself seem smaller and even more insignificant. They might have taken more notice of the girl few had seen before tonight if she hadn't been so disappointingly mundane, the opposite of her gregarious, engaging father in almost every way--except she too had a smile which never reached her eyes.





	

**Author's Note:**

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_How am I supposed to know that you're high if you won't let me touch you?  
_ -The Hold Steady, _Chips Ahoy!_

 

 _Freshly disowned in some frozen devotion_  
_No more alone or myself could I be_  
_Looks like I strayed to the arms that were open  
_ _No shortage of sordid, no protest from me_

 _Feeling more human and hooked on her flesh I_  
_Lay my heart down with the rest at her feet_  
_Fresh from the fields, all fetor and fertile_  
_It's bloody and raw, but I swear it is sweet  
_ -Hozier, _Angel of Small Death & the Codeine Scene _

********************

Alayne tapped the half-empty glass she held with the pads of her fingers, eyes sweeping idly over the crowd from her perch in the corner of the room. Her role tonight was to observe from the sidelines as a dutiful bastard daughter should; a polite but retiring presence to make the mildest of impressions on those she met this evening. Her attire reflected that; a simple dark green dress, well-made but of modest cut in both neckline and hem. It complemented the suit her father wore, but his was much flashier, finer in quality, which she didn't begrudge him for in the least. As the de facto ruler of the Vale, the Lord Protector needed to have a much greater impact on the wary nobility sworn to the seat he was keeping warm indefinitely. Alayne had no such task before her, and so could afford to clothe herself inconspicuously. Her makeup was likewise sparse and naturalistic, her dull, mousy brown hair bound loosely in a plain style. The only concession to her vanity had been the shoes she’d chosen; elegant but subtle, the heel just high enough to flatter her long legs without being unmanageable. The wardrobe addition had been Alayne’s idea, but fortunately her father had approved the change.

The most noticeable absence of the evening was young Lord Arryn, missing an important occasion once again due to unfortunate illness, as her father had regretfully informed the guests. Her loving father would keep his stepson incapacitated but blissfully ignorant until such a time as he deemed it unnecessary. Alayne would have more sympathy for the boy if he weren’t an unholy terror when not snowed under by medications. She wished herself likewise excused, finding the entire endeavor dull in the extreme, but sadly it was not to be. The part she played did little to stretch her abilities, and most of the people present were insufferable. Still, she greeted each as they came, her words soft but kind, smiling shyly, her shoulders bowed inward to make herself seem smaller and even more insignificant. They might have taken more notice of the girl few had seen before tonight if she hadn't been so disappointingly mundane, the opposite of her gregarious, engaging father in almost every way--except she too had a smile which never reached her eyes.

Presently, she noticed a provocatively dressed woman approaching her from the gaggle of ladies she’d heretofore avoided joining. She’d met the girl a few times before; Lord Royce had been a regular presence at the Eyrie along with his daughter, and, up until relatively recently, an antagonist trying her father’s infinite patience. They seemed to have mended things, though; she suspected the title her father had granted the man played no small part in gaining his favor. The bubbly, raunchy woman had latched onto Alayne instantly, to her chagrin, eager to impart her wisdom to her new diffident companion. The bawdy tale of how her former marriage ended in the premature release of her husband from his mortal duties whilst in bed set the tone for their acquaintance, to Alayne’s alarm. In another life, they might have been friends. Alayne had little use for what-ifs, however. Curvy in all the ways Alayne’s willowy form wasn’t, Myranda’s bright chestnut hair highlighted with gold fell in waves over her shoulders, framing a laughing smile. Furthermore, the shameless girl’s breasts were on display for the appreciation of all within a square mile, it seemed. Still, she had to admire the woman’s expertly done eyeliner and the mascara lending her eyelashes an almost sinful weight even as she felt a headache accompany her unwanted visitor.

“Alayne! Where have you been hiding, luv?” Myranda exclaimed loudly, seizing her in an embrace, and kissing her cheeks with bright red lipstick. 

Alayne smiled apologetically in return, ducking her head. “I’m not fond of crowds.”

“Me neither,” Myranda scoffed. “Bunch of boring old farts, really.” She laughed loudly, which Alayne echoed faintly. The woman’s expression then turned crafty. “How is your father? It feels like ages since we’ve seen the two of you.” She frowned in mock disapproval. “You need to take a break from this drafty old pile of stones and join us for dinner soon!” she suggested enthusiastically.

Alayne wondered if the next invitation would fail to include her, or, if some other set of contrived circumstances would preclude her attendance. It would be no great loss. “I’m sure he’d be happy to answer you himself,” she replied, gesturing to where her father was speaking to a circle of minor lords.

She could see Myranda seize the opportunity with crass aplomb. “I’ll just pop on over and say hello,” she said to Alayne, her eyes never wavering from her prize. “Don’t wander too far, dear, we simply must catch up,” she tossed over her shoulder while walking away from her, to Alayne’s relief. She watched as the girl sashayed toward her father, unconcerned. The hulking form of Nestor Royce appeared very eager to present his widowed daughter to the newly single Lord Protector. She saw Myranda giggle as she leaned in close to her father, giving him a kiss on the cheek that was a little too warm to be strictly polite and trailing a hand down the arm holding his drink. Relieved of the unwanted company, Alayne immediately sought to be nowhere nearby when the woman finally tired of her pursuit, fleeing through the crowd to the other side of the hall. Her presence was hardly needed at this point. If her father thought it advantageous to bed or wed the conceited bitch, well, he knew her terms. The fact that her stepmother ( _aunt_ , corrected an inner voice quickly silenced) hadn’t lasted more than a few weeks of her marriage to him under them--a fraction of what he’d intended, forcing him to drastically alter his own plans--didn’t cast a hopeful outlook on the long-term prospects of such a union.

A tall, athletic figure waiting for a drink at the makeshift bar caught her attention. _Harrold Hardyng,_ her father’s careful teachings supplied, great-nephew to the late Jon Arryn, and heir to little Robin. This endeavor served as a test, in a way; he’d given her a thorough accounting of all the various distinguished personages attending that evening but no guidance on what he hoped to achieve through it, seemingly content to watch her do what she wished with the information. She casually walked over to a wall that would be in the man’s sight-line when he turned around, leaning against it distractedly. She feigned a yawn, badly covering it with a belated hand to her mouth.  

It wasn’t long before she heard a voice pipe up nearby. “These things are always so boring, don’t you think?”

She turned, reddening at having been caught only to meet eyes of brilliant blue, strands of blond hair drifting free of its purposefully messy styling before being swept away by a perfectly bronzed hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” The boy smiled engagingly, holding out a hand. “I’m Harry.”

“That’s alright.” She smiled shyly, placing her hand lightly in his. “I’m Alayne.”

He grinned at her with a mouth of pearly white. “You’re Lord Baelish’s daughter.”

It was more statement than question, but she answered anyway, nodding. “Yes.”

His smile widened. “I’m glad we finally met. Lady Anya has spoken of you often.”

“My father has talked about you as well,” she replied. “He mentioned you were at uni in Oldtown?”

“Yeah, at Malleon. I’m studying communications.”

“That’s...interesting,” she stated hesitantly.

“Not really,” he laughed, “but thanks for being nice about it.” She smiled in relief. “What about you?” he inquired. “I still know some people at Gullstown, maybe we have friends in common.”

She shook her head. “I went there when I lived with my mother, but I'm taking distance courses now,” she said with a hint of melancholy.

Harry frowned on her behalf. “Your father seems like a real hardass.”

“You've no idea,” she groaned.

“Does he ever let you have any fun?”

“Yes!” she shot back defensively, but quickly gave up on the falsehood, admitting, “Not really. He’s a bit overprotective after what happened to my mum.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, for the loss of her mother or her freedom, or perhaps both. His face held sympathy but not pity, then formed into resolve as he came to some sort of decision. “Come one, I wanna show you something,” he implored.

She gave him a skeptical look. If he meant his cock, she wasn't interested, no matter how cute he was. He saw the face she made, and hastily sought to reassure her with a fetching blush. “No, not that,” he stammered, and slipped something silver out of his pocket. It was a bar of chocolate, innocuous on the surface, but from his furtive behavior, she could guess it would be far more interesting than it first appeared. She nodded, and they slipped out of the room through one of the doors that led to the gardens. Even in summer, the altitude and high winds made the climate of the Eyrie cool, but her dress was heavy enough to not feel it much. He brandished the offering in excitement.

“What’s in it?” she asked, dubious.

“A gram of the finest THC extract this side of the Narrow Sea,” he declared proudly, unwrapping it and holding it out to her.

“I really shouldn’t,” she demurred.

“Come one, no one will ever know,” he cajoled. “Not even the all-seeing Lord Baelish.”

She laughed in reply, and accepted the adulterated candy. The bittersweet chocolate almost covered up the tang of cannabis, rendering the aftertaste mild rather than off-putting. She took another piece at his goading, though she knew it would be awhile before she felt the effects. Still, she’d only drunk one glass of wine, and didn’t believe she would be affected too badly.  “Did you make this?” she asked, curious.

“Nah, I have a friend at school who got it shipped in from Dorne.” She enjoyed listening to the stories of his wayward friends as they wandered around the garden, admiring the hardy plants flowering in the brief reprieve before the cold battered them once again. She asked him many questions about his life at school, his experiences growing up, his family, all while keeping the weight of the conversation off of herself, but found spending time with him most pleasant. After a bit, when she started to feel a relaxing haze envelope her, he turned to her, his face serious. He grabbed her hands, startling her, and she was prepared to flee until he declared, “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry as hell.”

She laughed and nodded in agreement, and they hatched a plan. They snuck back inside, observing that not much had changed in their absence, and made their way over to the tables with food. Giggling, she served as a shield while Harry absconded with one of the smaller but delicious-looking cakes. Harry requested a tour while they ate which Alayne was quite happy to oblige. Pleasantly stoned, they wandered the familiar halls. Alayne dismissed the warning signs flashing in the back of her mind in favor of welcome detachment. She could hardly be disciplined for behaving like the teenager she was, she reasoned, though her father wasn’t what one would call ordinary in any sense.

When they headed back toward the main hall, still merry from food and illegal substances, they spied movement on a level below. The back-lit figure lifted its head up toward them, and Alayne saw silvered temples before the form disappeared from sight. Harry grabbed her hand again, and set off at a run she had trouble matching in her heels. “Shit, shit, shit, that was your dad!”

She was hardly worried--if her father thought it wise to abandon his guests to chase after her, that was his prerogative--but played along with Harry’s panic, finding it a diverting game. She tugged him in a different direction, heading down a hallway away from the crowded throne room. They came to a wall covered by a tapestry that, when pulled aside, revealed a narrow, curved staircase.  She ushered him down it, urging, “Go, now! He won’t catch you that way.”

The small stairwell utilized mainly by the house staff would return Harry right back to the midst of the crowd as if he had never left.

Rather than follow him, Alayne instead climbed another flight upwards, then another before doubling back towards the murmur of the crowd below, a shrewd maneuver that would shake most pursuers. Additionally, her path would take her to her favorite place in the Eyrie--the prismatic dome perched atop the craggy keep. Upon reaching it, she ventured to the ledge of the balcony. She leaned out of the shadows across the wide stone railing to catch moonbeams trickling through the stained glass skylight, the unearthly reds and greens and blues slipping over and between her fingers. She preferred its current subdued tones to the bright, garish kaleidoscope it cast in the day. Centuries ago, it served as the source of light for the castle's vaulted throne room with its multi-tier balconies, mirrored surfaces reflecting the rays to bathe the hall in bands of color--a triumph of engineering from a simpler age. Modern electricity rendered the feature outdated for practical use, but it remained a place of beauty and peace for her.

Suddenly, a hand covered her mouth, pulling her roughly back into the dark against an unyielding body. Petyr knew her far too well to have been fooled by her ploy, but her objective had been Harry’s freedom, not her own. If she hadn’t recognized the cool rings pressing into her skin or the scent of the lotion used by the vain man grinding himself into her arse, she might have fought back in earnest, but, as it was, she knew he would enjoy the mock struggle, just as she was certain her drab attire did more to inflame his ardor than any of the plunging necklines or thigh high slits parading about the rooms below, if only because it marked her as _his._ She wrapped her hands around his wrist and he stilled; if she tapped twice, he would let her go immediately. Instead, she chose to tug at it ineffectually, which earned her a shove into the waist-high carved rock in front of her.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice you with that boy?” he hissed into her ear, the hand not occupied with silencing her clutching at her hip for leverage. He didn’t afford her the leeway to nod or shake her head, but then the question was rhetorical.

“What did you take?” He bit at her neck in warning. “ _What did he give you?_ ” He was less worried by the substance than its source, she knew; he would have provided anything she wanted if she’d only asked, but instead she had accepted it from another, a younger potential rival. Again, he’d asked a question she would be unable to answer, but he always loved the sound of his own voice, and knew too well the effect it had on her. The hand on her hip tugged her dress up before diving between her legs. He swore when he discovered she’d made another alteration in her wardrobe, this time more addition by subtraction, as it were. His fingers slid through the cropped curls of her sex before slipping between her folds.

“Most improper for a young lady, for shame,” he murmured, teasing at her clit. “What do you think our distinguished guests would say if they knew you for the slut you really are?”

She ran her tongue over the parts of his hand she could reach, trying to suck at the bases of his fingers. She felt him shudder behind her, and his hands flexed a painful chastisement on her flesh for her presumption. It was attempt to cover his loss of control, but she could tell she accomplished her goal nonetheless as she felt him forcibly widen her stance with a leg pressed to the inside of one of hers. The real reason she’d chosen these shoes was because they were the perfect height for Petyr to bend her over and fuck her raw, which he finally seemed inclined to exploit. He leaned back only far enough to expose himself and her, and she heard the _clink_ of his belt and the sound of a zipper before she felt the heat of him replace the air that had chilled her in his brief absence. She released the wrist she’d been clutching to brace herself on the cold stone in front of her. He groaned as he worked his cock inside her ungently, harshly bottoming out each time as he set a slow, punishing rhythm. The position was uncomfortable in the extreme as he bent her over the railing at an angle that allowed his hand to keep its position between her legs even as he dragged her head back with the other, leaving her contorted awkwardly, and the hand over her mouth held her at the very the edge of not getting enough air, absorbing the moans and cries he extracted from her. It felt like he was tearing her in half in the best possible way, the sensation only enhanced by the intoxicant she’d ingested. The noise of the party below fluttered up to them unheeded.

“You think that boy could give you this, fill your needy little cunt like I can?” he spat, sucking at her exposed neck. The arrogance of the question rankled, but she would be lying if she told him yes, for none of the other lovers she had taken since him had even come close. He had an unfair advantage in having made an extensive study of every inch of her body, an opportunity not afforded to the casual hook-ups she’d sought out. It mattered little, though, as she suspected no one else would ever know her better inside and out, just as only she was permitted to see beneath the masks cloaking him in mystery, privileged to know what parts of him were more true than others. That connection had been sorely lacking during the hiatus of their relationship she imposed because of his marriage to Lysa, and her experimentation had been pleasurable but ultimately unfulfilling. She knew the separation had worn on Petyr more, however. It was merely truth--not hubris--to state that his jealousy at her explorations likely shortened her hated aunt’s lifespan considerably, in concert with his inability to keep his hands off of her to the displeasure of his shrewish wife.

Honesty was the only oath she'd sworn her perfidious Mockingbird to; loyalty and devotion followed of their own accord, and the roots of them reached further back into the past than she did. She couldn't have known that the greatest gift she would inherit from her mother would be Petyr’s obsession. Her family’s foolish devotion to duty and honor left her alone in a world of beasts wearing men's faces, but her birthright bequeathed her a monster of her very own, the worst of them all. The broken compass of his heart pointed unerringly to her, forcing him to realign his goals rather than guiding him along straighter paths, and she would exploit the advantage for all it was worth. She would never tire of this, of him, she suspected. A slow, wonderfully heavy heat built up inside her, approaching a goal which seemed to move further out of reach even as she hovered on the edge of ecstasy, and she grew impatient. She bit hard into the fleshy meat of his palm, winning bursts of copper on her tongue for her efforts.

He growled, “That wasn’t very nice, my sweet.” He pinched her clit in retaliation, the shock of it adding another layer to the mess of pain and pleasure he was composing. She licked the wound in an effort to spur him into moving faster, but he only laughed sadistically, then halted, still buried deep inside her. He tightened his hold over her mouth, blood and saliva making his hand slippery even as the other still playing between her legs grew slick from his ministrations; she suspected he would leave bruises she’d need to hide later. After Joffrey, she never thought she could ever find any pleasure in pain, but with Petyr she learned how delicious submission to it could be when she dictated the terms. From now on, any marks adorning her body were there solely because she wished them to be. Now, though, the too-full feeling of her flesh stretched by his cock began to cause discomfort. She flexed her core around him, trying to induce him to moving once more and, failing that, get enough stimulation to bring herself off without the controlling bastard’s permission.

“ _No._ Naughty girl.” He withdrew entirely, trailing his cock teasingly over her aching pussy. He loved to do this, flaunting his self-control to leave her wanting more, reducing her to begging for him. She mumbled into his hand, her words too muffled to parse. He finally let go of her face but immediately dug his fingers into her hair, tugging on it to pull her head back further with enough force to bring tears to her eyes as he nipped at her ear. “What was that, sweetling?” he asked in a biting drawl.

She took advantage of the freedom to take in a few lungfuls of air, making him wait before she answered. With some effort, she managed to keep the triumphant grin from her face even as she saw victory in sight. She took a deep breath in anticipation--

“Fuck me, daddy, _please_ ,” she moaned.

All of Petyr’s twisted games dissolved under mindless need, clever words devolving into a snarl as he drove himself back inside her waiting cunt and _finally_ began to fuck her properly. She rarely used the title in bed for precisely this reason, reserving the potent language for whenever she needed to regain the upper hand. She bit her own lip to stifle her moans, Petyr burying his in the junction of her neck and shoulder as he pounded into her. She felt her peak approach quickly, singing inside as she vaulted over it, Petyr groaning through his own orgasm behind her. From the way his hands dug into her flesh, tore at her dress, she knew he wouldn’t be satisfied with just one coupling, which was fine by her. As they stilled, she ventured a look over the ledge to the crowd still milling about the room below them, cheerfully oblivious to the Lord Protector defiling what they believed to be his own offspring.

Petyr withdrew, then turned her to face him for the first time in their encounter. He studied her carefully with eyes of bright grey-green, and even in the spare light she could see reflected in his expression the embodiment of debauchery she must look--the red imprints his fingers left on the skin around her mouth, his blood clinging to the corners of her sated smirk. She was certainly unfit for any further socialising this evening, and she had a feeling Petyr would be loathe to let her out of his sight. She was proven right when, after delivering a bruising kiss to her tainted lips, Petyr grasped her by her upper arm and fairly dragged her through the halls toward the safety of the thick stone walls of his quarters. One of the servants would have to make their excuses--they'd been aware for awhile now of Lord Baelish’s unnatural affection for his daughter, but kept the secret lest they lose their loose tongues. Abandoning their guests was poor form, but of no concern to Sansa if Petyr thought it immaterial. She liked to think, however, at least a few of them would wonder why their host had never returned from putting his ‘daughter’ to bed.

Finally secluded behind locked doors, Sansa let out a yelp of laughter as Petyr tossed her playfully onto his large bed, quickly stripping her of her ruined clothes before settling himself between her legs. Burying her fingers in his hair as he enthusiastically began mopping up the mess he’d made of her sex with his tongue, she closed her eyes, content. In a few short months, Sansa Stark will turn eighteen and reclaim that which she has lost--her name, her home, her inheritance, even her gods damn hair color--and more besides. At last, she would pry all that was hers by right from the cold, dead fingers of her enemies, and crush everything they held dear beneath her feet. Soon, she will step out of the darkness and into the light, an all-too-willing Petyr by her side.

****************

Thanks for reading. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated. Happy belated Valentine's Day!


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